


take me out, take me home

by mysteriesofloves



Category: Gossip Girl (TV 2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, alternatively titled: i just want everyone to be friends, i mean kind of. it’s them so, mentions of vanessa and nate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27077266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteriesofloves/pseuds/mysteriesofloves
Summary: While the music is a considerable upgrade from the other noises she occasionally hears through the wall, it’s still not optimal, and turning her own music on at full blast in an effort to be passive aggressive had no effect on suite six-zero-five.Suite six-zero-five, or, Dan Humphrey.
Relationships: Dan Humphrey/Blair Waldorf
Comments: 26
Kudos: 147





	take me out, take me home

_Heartbreak should be like film,_ Serena said. _It should have an expiration date._

Blair wasn’t sure _heartbreak_ was the right word to describe Serena’s state after her breakup with Aaron (photographer, avid scarf-wearer, Blair’s step-brother), but the metaphor still seemed apt for the situation, poetic in a way Serena only got after one-and-a-half bottles of wine (straight from the bottle, Blair’s life had fallen apart). 

“We haven’t been single at the same time since we were nineteen,” Blair said. “Do you remember being nineteen? Everything I wanted was so different. Now I’ve got time to think about what I really want.”

“And what’s that?”

Blair looked back at the screen as Carrie slid into the limo next to Mr. Big, the city lights glimmering around them. 

“Not that,” Blair said. “Anything but that.”

Serena clicked on the next episode, and Blair shifted up to look at her, Carrie’s voice playing over her thoughts. 

“Two years,” Blair said, kicking her feet (polish chipped, her life had fallen apart) up on the coffee table. Adding, to clarify, “Film expires after two years.”

Serena’s own feet swung up and settled in Blair’s lap. “That’s a _long_ fucking time.”

It didn’t feel that way. Blair was sure, in that moment, that two years could pass and it would feel like two minutes, that her heart would forever remain rotten fruit, the bruises of Chuck’s grasp browning fingerprints in it for the rest of time. 

Serena’s heartbreak expired in less than two weeks (Ruby, frontwoman of a punk band, _Brooklynite)_ , and expired, and expired. And Blair’s two minutes turned to two weeks turned to two months, until New York winter reared it’s not-so-ugly head once again and Blair woke up to a single text, one line, reading —

**_happy expiration date baby._ **

Which is how she ended up at the Cloisters with Ian (Harvard Law graduate, self-proclaimed art lover, Nate-Lite) on a Sunday having medieval European art mansplained to her. 

Ian was second in a list that Serena wasn’t allowing her to be privy to – probably because she found their numbers scribbled on the inside of a bar bathroom stall – in an attempt to find the next not-Chuck. 

“I really thought you’d like him,” Serena pouts. “He offered to take you to the Met on your first date!”

“On a Sunday,” Blair says. “That should’ve been the first red flag.”

“It seemed like it was meant to be. But don’t worry, the next one’s even better.”

“Then why didn’t you start with him?”

“Well –“

The rest of Serena’s (no doubt half-assed) answer is lost to the shaking of Blair’s apartment walls, picture frames vibrating in place to the beat of — _My Bloody Valentine?_

While the music is a considerable upgrade from the other noises she occasionally hears through the wall (she’s not entirely convinced that the girl — or _girls_ — that suite six-zero-five is sleeping with aren’t loud just to spite her, because, seriously, how good can a guy who probably dropped out of Steinhardt and smokes an e-cigarette _be?_ ) it’s still not optimal, and turning her own music on at full blast in an effort to be passive aggressive had no effect on suite six-zero-five.

Suite six-zero-five, or, Dan Humphrey (lumberjack without the physical labour, in desperate need of a haircut, kind of hot but she doesn’t think about it).

The music, the sex, and the almost constant smell of pot all working together to transport her back to the cramped apartment in Riverside Park with Nate their first year at Columbia, if Nate read Modernist poetry and was able to piss her off in the sixty seconds it took to reach the lobby from the sixth floor. She’s not sure _where_ Humphrey was raised but surely it was somewhere without elevator etiquette, ignoring her silent, polite smiles in favour of continuously striking up conversations _(arguments)._

If she wasn’t already on her way out the door she would probably knock down his, but seeing as she has seven or so minutes to catch a cab before she’s officially late to the office, she grabs a sharpie and a pad of purple post-its, scribbling down a quick note.

_Humphrey —_

_I don’t know how many times I can tell you that you’re about fifteen years too old for teen angst. I’m going to find it in my heart to forgive you, but this is your final warning before I go to the higher ups (your mother, perhaps?)_

_Turn the music down!_

She returns home with a caffeine headache and a cramp in her leg to the barely legible response stuck on her door.

_Waldorf (presumably, although you left no signature)_

_Sorry! Bad day. Won’t happen again :)_

_Don’t tattle,_

_Dan_

That was another thing about Humphrey, his schedule seemed to be the inverse of every regular person she knows, unwinding from his bad day at eight a.m. and drinking a cup of coffee on the fire escape at eight at night — which she only knows because her living room window is so close to said fire escape that she can smell it when she’s unwinding from _her_ bad day.

The note is all smudged, causing the small smiley face to look a bit more sinister than she assumes he intended. She’s seen the ink stains along the side of his hand, curling around his fingers when he reaches for the elevator button or raises a cigarette to his mouth. Not that she looks at his hands _often,_ just that first time she saw him, to check for a ring. And then the second time, just to get another look. Anytime since, well, she doesn’t think about it.

* * *

It’s two weeks and another less pompous but still unexceptional date (Jean-Marc, great table manners, awful conversationalist) later when a copy of the _New Yorker_ slips out from between international _Vogues._

_Humphrey —_

_Got this by accident. I know it’s not your fault but I choose to blame you anyway._

_BW_

She sticks the post-it on the cover and slides the magazine under his door. It’s not that she _waits_ for a response, but after a day of nothing, she jots down another. 

_Humphrey —_

_The Christmas lights on your fire escape were not regulation back in December, and surprise! Are still not regulation now. It’s almost February, take them down._

_BW_

She doesn’t receive any notes in return, but the lights are gone the next day. 

* * *

“Hey. Let me get that for you.”

The stark setting sun reflects back against the windowed doors of the lobby, harsh into her eyes, and she’s fumbling to pick up her keys from the salted cement steps when she hears him behind her. Her hair sticks in her gloss when she throws him a look over her shoulder, already reaching to grab her groceries out of her hands, a (real) cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips.

“You have about as much muscle mass as I do.”

“Ouch,” Dan tugs the cigarette from his mouth and stubs it out on the door, sticking what’s left of it behind his ear. “Let me _help_ you, Wonder Woman.”

She gives in, too cold to argue, thrusting all of the bags at him. The unceremonious _rip_ rings through the wind just as the lock clicks, the contents of one particularly overstuffed bag spilling out onto the steps.

“Wow,” she says, staring down as a bottle of wine rolls down the steps, Dan almost falling over trying to stop it with his foot. “You had literally one job.”

“That was not my fault.”

“It’s these fucking _paper_ bags,” Blair is need of some serious unwinding. Hence, the rolling bottle of wine. “Do not get me started on paper straws, if my straw is going to dissolve in the middle of my drink, I just wouldn’t use a fucking straw.”

Dan looks at her a little oddly, but he’s smiling nonetheless. “Environmentalists. What were they thinking?”

“If there had been eggs in that bag I would have stabbed you in the carotid with the key.”

Dan laughs, curls falling over his forehead as his head shakes, bending to pick up the fallen bottle of white. “Guess it’s my lucky day.”

“You know,” he says, arms still bag-clad, the rickety elevator screeching like a cartoon kettle. “When I accidentally got your magazines I left them outside your door so the covers didn’t get scuffed from pushing them underneath.”

_Forty-eight, forty-nine…_

“The passive aggression in your tone is noted.”

“Are they really all that different?” he says, following her out the doors and around the corner. “Fashion magazines, I mean. You get, like, six of them.”

“Is _The Atlantic_ different from _Breitbart?_ ” she says, earning her a little snort in return. “Different contributors have different insights on trends and culture, just like anything else, Humphrey.” 

He hums, handing off the groceries. “I’m sure _Cosmo_ gives great insight on culture.”

“I’m sure your head gives great insight on your ass,” she says, and, _okay,_ not her best, but Dan’s eyes crinkle when he laughs and she forgets what she was saying for a second.

“Well,” she says, standing in the open doorway, hugging her sad, ripped bag of groceries. “I would invite you in but I absolutely do not want to do that at all.”

“That’s okay, I’ve gotta start getting ready. I’ve got – well, a date tonight.”

“If getting ready consists of a new haircut, shaving regiment, and wardrobe, as it should, you’re running a little late.”

Dan _laughs_ again, then narrows his eyes to the doorway behind her. “Maybe you could lend me a _Cosmo_ to help out?”

She kicks the door closed in his face.

* * *

The streets are dressed in white, veiling the city gracefully, like a novelty snow globe. Which, coincidentally, is how Blair feels; turned upside down and shaken. After dropping her earring in the heating duct and sweating off all her makeup in the process of retrieving it, she’s had to open all the windows in an effort to salvage at least a little bit of the look — and thus choking on the cloud of nauseating faux-sweetness emitting from none other than suite six-zero-five’s e-cigarette.

“Waldorf?”

She sticks her head out the window, met with a more rumpled than usual Humphrey holding the morning paper, wrinkled flannel rolled up to his elbows, a pen positioned at the paper. 

“Yes?”

“Eight letter word for constant ringing in the ears?”

She takes a moment, then, “Humphrey.”

“Yes? Oh, I – I get it. That’s cute.”

She ducks back inside, refastening her earring and calling out, “Tinnitus.”

“Right. Five letters. Beauty personified.” She leans back out in time to see him tap the end of his pen against his chin. _“Blair.”_

“That’s cute,” she checks her gloss in her compact mirror, packing her files into her purse. “Venus.”

“Yeah, I know. Eight letters, space of diamonds?”

“I don’t have time for puzzles, Humphrey. I have a real job.”

“Where?” he says, offhand, scribbling something down on the open page in front of him.

“Downtown,” she says pointedly. “So if I’m not in a cab in the next two minutes I’m going to be late.”

“Better get going then,” he says, and then: “You do look beautiful.”

“You haven’t even looked at me.”

The pen moves up to his temple, _tap tap tapping._ “Call it intuition. Or knowledge of the obvious.”

She rolls her eyes, which he also doesn’t see, sliding the window closed with a _bang._

As her hand raises to flag down a cab, she ignores his call of _“See!”_ from above.

_Of course,_ she thinks, jotting down a note in the middle of a meeting and folding it into her purse to stick on his door when she gets home.

_Tiffany’s._

* * *

“Smoking is bad for your health,” she declares, sliding her window open, as if to no one in particular, as if she opens the window and calls out obvious things all the time.

“You’re bad for my health,” he says. She doesn’t mean to laugh, she really doesn’t, and holding it back results in it coming back up in the form of an ugly little snort. Dan looks up and over, a brow raised.

“Wow,” he says. “That was adorable.”

She replaces her head with her hand, sticking a finger up in his direction. 

“Do you have plans later?”

“It’s Valentine’s day,” she says, continuing the calling-out-obvious-things trend. 

“I don’t observe,” he says, pausing to take a drag. “Valentine’s day turns love into a commodity. It makes it something to be had instead of felt. It’s just another capitalistic venture in making us feel void of real human connection.”

Blair leans forward, squinting as if to inspect him. “Are you high?”

He laughs, the whites of his teeth betraying his stance. It’s not the laugh that makes her cheeks feel rosy-warm. She’s probably getting a fever from being out in the cold too long. 

“Have you ever considered,” she says slowly, blinking away the bombardment of thoughts on self-reflection he’s stirred up. “That maybe, some people just like to have fun?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “I was born a buzzkill and I will die a buzzkill.”

It’s her turn to be betrayed, but she turns away quick enough that her laugh hopefully gets lost in the wind. 

“So I’m guessing your date didn’t go well.”

“My –? Oh, it was fine. I mean, I don’t think she wants a second.”

“Big shocker,” she mumbles. 

“Are you seeing _roses_ again?”

“Excuse me?”

He tosses the butt into his makeshift ashtray, producing another cigarette and a lighter from the chest pocket of his flannel. She watches him with some interest, liking the way the orange flicker of flame lights up over his face amongst all the grey of the city, the way his lips curl and press together; his hands and all the things he could do with them — the things she doesn’t think about. “Tall, dark, and handsome who waited for you on the street a few days ago with a bouquet of _roses.”_

(Ali, daytime television actor, the flowers were really the only nice part of the date.)

The cold air is sharp in her lungs when she remembers to breathe. “Are you spying on me?”

“No. I just happened to be out here.”

“You happened to be out here because you’re a pack away from hospice,” she says. “They were beautiful. I’m sure the only kind of flowers you offer a girl come in different strains.”

Humphrey, ever the inconsiderate asshole, laughs that warm laugh that seems to rumble around in his chest, shaking his whole body. She retracts back inside, moving to close the window and shut out all the flushed, contradicting feelings he’s giving her. 

“Blair?”

 _If Dan Humphrey makes her stick her head out the window one more fucking_ —

“Yes, David?”

“Was that a no on the Valentine’s plans?”

She slams the window shut. She doesn’t think about Dan Humphrey for the rest of the day.

* * *

It’s not that her closet _needs_ reorganizing, so much as she needs something to occupy herself with so she doesn’t stop to dwell on the fact that it would be her and Chuck’s anniversary today, and she’s done nothing of value with her newly expired heartache. She’s already deep cleaned the kitchen and bathroom and the smell of Lysol is starting to give her a migraine, so this is really the natural progression. She can hear the muffled thrum of rushing water on the other side of the wall, and she’s halfway through re-sorting her shoes by colour instead of brand when she sees it, the darkness spreading over the red dust bag like it’s bleeding out. Blair shrieks — a bloodcurdling, horror movie final girl shriek. 

One moment she’s in a sea of clothing and the next she’s banging on his door, closed fist rapping non-stop, so hard she almost falls over when the door finally swings open on a _What the fuck?_ from the other side _._ Her hand stops mid-air, mouth falling open when she’s met with a half-naked, dripping wet Dan, gripping a towel tight around his hips, looking at her like she’s insane, which, to his credit — 

“You don’t put clothes on before you answer the door?”

“If I left you to knock on it for another minute you would’ve blown it off its hinges.”

The smattering of hair on his chest only barely camouflages the curl of inked cursive over his heart. She takes note of the name, files it away for later. Her eyes trail down without her permission, following a droplet of water as it runs a rather appealing path down his abdomen, disappearing as it hits the cloth of the towel.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft all of a sudden. “My eyes are up here.”

Furious, she holds up the bag. If the burning heat in her cheeks is anything to go by, she’s positive that they’re the same colour. “You are a menace to society.”

“I’m – okay, I’m not trying to argue with that, but I literally have no idea what’s happening here.”

“Three years these shoes go without so much as a scuff, and now they’re _ruined_ because your _fucking shower_ is leaking.”

“Oh,” he runs a hand through his wet hair. She is absolutely not thinking any obscene thoughts. “I didn’t – I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Do you _know_ what water damage does to leather?”

His brow raises. “Real leather?”

“You. are. insufferable.”

He nods, like he knows this, then turns back inside, leaving her standing in the doorway. 

“The landlady’s husband is a plumber,” he calls from somewhere down the hall. “I can have it fixed by tonight. The shoes… I don’t know, I can pay to have them… fixed? Is that –?”

He emerges again, towel replaced by a pair of jeans, pulling on a shirt with the logo of a band she faintly recognizes but can’t place. She uses the opportunity of his face being covered to sneak another look at the exposed… rest of him, and files that away for later, too.

“It’s okay,” she says, slightly bashful even though Blair Waldorf is never bashful. “They aren’t actually ruined. I got to them in time.”

He laughs, wet hair flopping onto his forehead, and when he pushes it away again, her fingers flex, curling around the drawstrings of the dust bag.

“I was just making some coffee. Do you want some?”

“Weren’t you _just_ in the shower?”

“My showers are about 45 minutes shorter than yours,” he says, not waiting for her to respond before heading to the kitchen. 

“Explains the smell,” she calls after him, and she allows herself a smile at the sound of his laugh, only because he’s turned away.

She’s not sure what she was expecting the inside of Humphrey’s apartment to be like, but this was… not it. She didn’t think about it, but if she did, it would be something along the lines of _bachelor pad,_ but instead she’s standing in the middle of what feels like the well-organized chaos of an old record shop. She’s impressed, honestly, with the cross section of bookcases, the tidy shelves of ceramic mugs and plates. A large abstract painting hangs above the worn leather couch, and she feels a little winded at how well everything goes together, even though it probably shouldn’t.

“How do you take it?” 

“Surprise me,” she says. She takes a seat on the couch, careful to stay on the edge and not sink into it. Dan returns after what feels like much too long with two mugs of coffee, the one for him plain black, the one for her frothed and dusted with what appears to be nutmeg. 

“This is _really_ good. Are you hiding a Starbucks back there? Wait –“ she holds up a finger. “I know, Starbucks is homogenizing the art of coffee and the ecosystem of human connection present at the independent coffee bar.”

Dan’s laugh seems to startle him, his eyes bright as he leans back into an equally sunken leather armchair across from her. “Not bad, Waldorf.”

His mug, dirt brown and speckled, is chipped, cracked down the side, like the Earth being split open, but the one he gave to her is in mint condition, a deep blue. He peers at her in a way that feels like he’s treading carefully.

“Is everything okay? I know you’re always kind of a spaz but… it’s not just the shoes, is it?”

She’s not sure how it happens, but she spends the next three hours in a non-hostile, more-than-pleasant conversation inside suite six-zero-five, Miles Davis on vinyl spinning the time away. She doesn’t even remember the last time she really talked about Chuck, thinking the best way to help her heartbreak meet it’s expiry date on time was to bury it all away. Maybe it’s the date on the calendar, or the comforting croon of the trumpet, or the way Dan looks at her like she’s something to really be looked at, more than just the sum of her parts. This is not what Blair does, unzip herself like a dress and lay herself bare. She’s much too cold for that. She’s not like Serena, lit from within. She needs to be covered and double-knotted and closed off. This is how they worked — Serena was warm enough for the both of them. And still, she doesn’t say much, hardly anything at all — just the significance of the day, the significance of the shoes — the last gift he gave her before breaking her heart — but it’s more than she’s said in two years, and Dan listens, and when she’s finished, he says, “It might not feel like you’re better off without him, but from where I’m standing, it definitely looks like it.”

She learns more things about Dan Humphrey than she ever expected to want to: that he’s a freelance writer, that he struggles to pay his rent on time, that he likes Rohmer almost as much as she does, that he’s a really good listener. 

And — it’s not a date, she knows it’s not, considering she started it with a plan to murder him in cold blood, but it doesn’t feel like nothing, in fact it feels like more of a _something_ than any of the actual dates she’s been on. 

She blames this weird, transient atmosphere for the way her hand lingers on his when she returns the mug back to him, the way she lingers in the doorway and offers to call some friends to see what she can do about getting him some gigs, or a more stable position, if that’s something he wants. And when he smiles, she can think of a great many things _she_ wants. 

“This was nice,” she says. Standing in the hallway, she's suddenly overcome with how much she doesn’t want to return to her empty apartment, the opened floodgates of fabric awaiting her. 

“It was,” he says. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

* * *

She moves her morning coffee from the kitchen to the windowsill after that, punctuating warm conversation with competing to see who can call out the answer to crossword questions first (Blair is a sore loser, an equally sore winner). The coffee she makes isn’t as good, but the company — the company she’s finding harder and harder to complain about. 

* * *

There are countless things Blair loves about living in New York City, but for every one of them there’s something else that makes her seriously consider moving to a convent in the middle of nowhere — the fact that no building has ever stayed up to date on maintenance is one of them. Sometimes, this works out in her favour (hot shirtless neighbour with leaking shower) and sometimes this means the elevator is out when she gets home from work and she has to walk up six flights of stairs in heels after an already excruciating day of meetings about how print is a dying medium. By the time she makes it six floors up she’s a little winded and a lot sweaty and it’s perfect, absolutely perfect — serendipitous, really, that she should find Serena — in all her effortless, non-sweaty, stunning Serena glory, pressed up to Blair’s front door giggling at whatever bullshit Dan is spewing at her. 

Serena’s face lights up at her arrival — Blair’s favourite look, because it’s always directed only to her, the rush of Serena-warmth like a hot shower after a long day, relaxing her muscles. She pointedly _ignores_ this relaxation, opting instead for sticking her bag into Serena’s open arms and fumbling with her keys.

“Ah, speak of the Devil and she shall appear,” Dan says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. She’s blocked in on both sides by pretty little smiles, not sweaty and full of breath and _mocking_ her. 

“Forgive me if I don’t want to stick around to find out what you were saying,” Blair snaps, dragging Serena in by the forearm and just as pointedly shutting the door in Dan’s face. 

“Well that was rude.”

“Don’t you have a key?” Blair hisses, going straight to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. Serena drops Blair’s bag onto the counter, rummaging through her own and producing a slim, light green box. Blair hesitates for a moment, gauging how mad she actually is, before reaching to open it.

“I do, but I ran into your infamous _Humphrey_ just as I got here,” Serena splits a pistachio macaron, handing Blair one half and taking a bite of the other. “You know, for a city of eight million people, it really isn’t all that big.”

Blair’s piece stops halfway to her mouth. “God, _of course_ you’ve slept with him.”

“Not _him._ He’s best friends with Ruby’s sister!”

A rush of relief floods over her, and she sticks the piece of macaron into her mouth to cover it, reaching for another. “Remind me which one Ruby was?”

Serena splits open a new piece, licking at the icing. “Girl band Ruby.”

“That’s somehow worse than if you’d slept with him.”

Serena ignores her, taking a sip from Blair’s glass with a knowing little glint in her eye, the kind of glint Blair has come to despise.

“All this time you’ve talked about him, you’ve failed to mention how cute he was.”

“If you think he’s cute, you should check out the dog park down the street.”

 _“B,”_ she says, leaning forward on her elbows with a look that tells Blair she’s being _serious_ now. Blair purses her lips, ready to shut down whatever she’s about to say. “He likes you.”

Blair picks at a chocolate macaron, not meeting Serena’s eyes. “He said that?”

“In so many words.”

“But not in those words.”

Serena’s hand comes over hers, stilling them before she makes a mess. 

“Have you thought that maybe the reason every date you’ve been on has gone badly is because you _wanted_ them to go badly? Because you’re afraid to open yourself up to someone again?”

“The reason every date I’ve been on has gone badly is because your bad taste surpasses just the people you choose for yourself.”

Serena sighs, sucking a crumb of chocolate from her finger. “‘I think she’s really great, but I can never tell with her, if she likes me or…’”

“What?”

 _“Those_ were his words,” Serena says. “Before you rudely interrupted.”

Blair presses her lips to the rim of her glass but doesn’t take a sip. When she sighs, her breath fogs the inside. “I’m putting a moratorium on this conversation.”

* * *

Antoni (works at the Italian consulate, taking her to a benefit, not-Chuck but cutting it pretty damn close) is going to be different, she tells herself, as she fastens a string of pearls around her neck. It’s going to work, he’s going to be wonderful, and he’s going to think she’s wonderful, and she’s going to summer in Portofino and her life will be even better than she thought it was over two years ago. 

She tells herself this as she straps on her shoes, dabs N°5 under her jaw, locks up her apartment. She tells herself this, and still, she finds herself stopping outside the door next to hers, her hands balled up into fists.

“Jesus.”

She turns suddenly to find Dan coming up the stairs, a laundry bag under his arm. He runs a quick hand through his hair, swallows.

“What?”

“Uh – nothing. Where you headed?”

He’s watching her with a kind of intent that makes her stomach flip, shifting his weight and the bag of laundry uneasily. She takes a step towards him. “I thought I’d tackle the Adirondacks tonight.” 

He shakes his head, easing up and grappling his keys out of his back pocket. 

“That’s funny. Do you do that with everyone? Answer questions with a smart little remark?” 

“Only when the questions are stupid,” she says. She’s blocking his path, tipping her chin up at him. His tongue comes out to wet his lips slowly. “But if you really must know –“

“That’s okay, I don’t really care anymore.”

“I’m going on a date.”

Dan pauses for an almost imperceptible moment, then continues towards his door. She thinks, _tell me not to go,_ and it stills her, as if shocked by her own shadow. But his smile is easy, his hand reaching past her for the doorknob. “Have fun.”

She doesn’t want to talk about Antoni. She just wants to wash out all this hairspray and get out of this dress and scream at Serena over the phone for not double-checking these things to spare her the embarrassment.

She’s already planning the strongly worded voicemail she’s going to leave when she storms out of the elevator and trips, her hands flying out in front of her to catch her doorknob before she falls flat on her face. She looks down at the culprit, laying discarded in the middle of the hallway: a pair of gold heels.

The hairspray and the dress and the voicemail will have to wait, Blair going straight for the tried and trusted stack of post-it notes.

_Humphrey —_

_I am not one to slut-shame but I would appreciate it if you could keep it in your pants long enough that your date’s shoes make it into the apartment. I almost broke my ankle._

Most of Blair’s aggression stems from missing Serena whenever she’s away for work, and so after the voicemail has been left, she digs out one of her tie-dye t-shirts and a pair of fuzzy cat pajamas she left behind and puts them on like a sheet of armour, a reminder that while things feel like they can only get worse, that it would be kind of impossible at this point.

There’s no noise coming from suite six-zero-five, and she doesn’t press her ear up against the adjoining wall to listen, but she _does_ consider it, which is enough to convince her that she has a problem. Instead, she turns on _Real Housewives_ and opens the windows, letting the sounds of the ever-alive city filter into the apartment and cloud over her thoughts. 

“Waldorf?”

She pauses, half-thinking she imagined it. But Dan continues, “You’re home early. Date that bad?”

The wind blows back her hair when she ducks outside, leaning her elbows on the ledge. 

“Seeing as you’re out here alone yours couldn’t have gone any better.”

“What?” he says. She raises her eyebrows. “Oh – no, it’s my sister. She was fired _and_ dumped in the span of two days and now she’s just –“ he jams a thumb back, gesturing behind him, “been watching _Sex and the City_ in there for the last two hours.”

Blair laughs, dropping her face into her hands. 

“I’ve been there,” she says. “I guess that explains the shoes. She must be a Carrie.”

“If you mean the Stephen King kind, then, yeah.” He tilts his head at her, smiling a little. “So, what was wrong with him?”

“Who?”

“Your date.”

“What makes you think there was something wrong with _him?_ ”

“There’s no way _you_ struck out.”

Blair sighs. “Think again.”

“In that dress? There really is something wrong with him.”

Blair chews on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “He knew my ex.”

Dan’s brows furrow. “Who cares?”

“Him, apparently.”

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet,” he says. “On both fronts.”

“I think you might be right.”

Blair’s heart catches in her throat at the appearance of Dan’s widened grin, crinkled eyes. “Can I get that in writing?”

She knows it’s him before she opens the door, because no one else is going to come knocking this late, but there’s still a bit of genuine surprise when she says, “Dan.”

“So she does know my name,” his eyes skim over her, seeming to take it all in, and she’s surprised again when she’s met with the same intensity in his gaze from earlier in the night, this time with an added smile. He holds up what appears to be a half-empty bottle of red wine. “I thought I’d take this away from Jen before she gets alcohol poisoning.”

Blair stands dumbfounded, staring at the bottle while an alarm rages through her mind yelling _Nothing’s impossible!_

Dan pulls his eyes away from her to look around the inside of her apartment, mouth hanging slightly agape. “This place is like the fucking St. Regis.”

She raises a brow. “Have you stayed at the St. Regis?”

“I went to a wedding there once.” His eyes drop back to her, and he shrugs. “Okay, I _worked_ a wedding there once.”

“I’m not – I’m – “ _wearing rainbow tie-dye and cat pajamas_. “I probably shouldn’t let you in. You look like you have fleas.”

Dan laughs that stupidly sweet laugh, handing her the bottle. “Okay, consider it an apology for the shoes, then.”

He takes a step back, then pauses, giving her another once-over. 

“I kind of pictured you sleeping in like, a coffin, in a full gown or something. But this is a nice development.”

She swings the door shut. “Goodbye, David.”

* * *

“Who’s _Alison?”_ she says, poking him in the chest with a careful finger. “Girl who broke your heart?”

She’s not sure what it is about Dan Humphrey that’s made her give in so easily — because for all the excuses she’s made and not-thinking she’s done about him, it still feels _too_ easy; spending the next night playing board games with him and Jenny (Blair is a sore loser, an equally sore winner), and now they’re sitting on the floor against the couch, Jenny asleep above them, dozing off sometime after her third win and fourth beer, and all she can think about is how much more _right_ it feels than every date she’s been on — that the mess of Scrabble pieces and Monopoly money and the bottle of beer sweating in her hand and two _Brooklynites_ should be painting a portrait of a night out of her own personal Hell, but instead she just feels light and happy, and kind of baffled by it. 

Dan’s brows furrow then raise. “My mom. Although she does fit the description.”

“Oh,” her finger retracts, folding back into her lap. “I should’ve known. You think romance is dead.”

“I don’t,” he says, and when he shifts, his knees knock against hers. “I just don’t like Valentine’s day.”

“Or flowers.”

“I have nothing against flowers,” he argues. “It’s just – there was no thought to it. It was the week of Valentine’s day, of course every flower shop’s going to be lined with roses. But _lilies_ are native to France, which would have reminded you of studying abroad, and he could have found purple ones, like the post-its you use.”

Blair reminds herself to breath, managing a short exhale before cracking, breaking out into a sharp, delighted laugh. “Why do you know that much about lilies?”

He presses a finger to his lips, crooked up in a wry smile, and it puts her in a momentary trance. He points up over his head. “She worked at a florist before she was fired.”

“It was the first date,” she says. “He wouldn’t have known any of that.”

“Then he could’ve asked,” he says. “And brought flowers on the second.”

She feels like a heat map, lighting up all over. She leans in, and he follows, the north to her south. Her lip catches between her teeth, whispering, “How do you get fired from a flower shop?”

“By showing up to work drunk and killing the flowers,” Jenny mumbles, turning over on the couch. “Can you two get a room?”

“You’re in it,” Dan says, head rolling back against the couch cushions. He gives her a vaguely apologetic look, and if Blair’s blushing like a stupid caught teenager, it’s only because he is, too. 

* * *

The bell above the door chimes, bringing a gust of cold wind into the overheated bodega. She turns to look instinctively, the corners of her mouth turning up instinctively, too, the way they’ve been known to do around him. It’s working itself out as less and less of a problem.

“Oh, good, I thought that was you.”

He grabs a pack of nicotine gum and drops it on the counter next to her bottle of Advil and Sour Patch Kids. She raises a brow at it, then him. “I’m trying to quit,” comes the response.

“Listen, Vanessa’s doc got picked up for Tribeca and I’m having some people over to celebrate Friday night, so the music might be too loud for your delicate sensibilities. That is, if you’ll be home Friday night.”

“I will be,” she says. “So thank you for the heads up, smartass.”

“Right. But the thing is, since you are free, I was kind of hoping you’d come.”

“Okay.”

“O–okay? Okay. Great. That was easier than I expected.”

 _Tell me about it,_ she thinks, sliding his pack of gum over with her things. 

* * *

She’s not sure what constitutes as fashionably late in hipster time, but the music’s been humming through the entire floor like a low magnitude earthquake for at least an hour and a half before she decides she’s presentable in a totally-casual-took-three-hours-to-get-ready kind of way. Blair had always prided herself in her radical confidence, in belonging somewhere simply because she decided that she did. But when the door to Dan’s apartment swings open, casting her and the hallway she stands in in golden light, she’s struck with the fact that she’s actually a little nervous, that Dan has poked holes through her darkened façade like an arts and crafts constellation. For one, it’s Vanessa that opens the door, who’s beautiful in an actually effortless way, bare faced and grinning when Blair introduces herself, like there’s some big joke that Blair isn’t in on. For another, Dan is nowhere to be seen amongst the group of his artfully disheveled friends, who lean up against the bookcases and sink into the leather couch, making Jenny the only person in the room Blair has met before, like an alternate universe Serena; sea-glass blue eyes rimmed in thick, dark liner, like if the fight in tenth grade had actually resulted in Serena running away, like if she’d gone cross-country on a tour bus with Ruby like she’d planned to.

Ruby is also here, in a short skirt and oversized men’s blazer, like a funhouse mirror version of what Blair’s wearing. She, apparently, _has_ met Ruby before, although she must’ve been too drunk on that occasion to remember. Vanessa thrusts a mason jar filled with “sangria” into her hand, and it’s too sweet and frankly so disgusting Blair almost spits it right back out, but instead smiles politely and holds her breath while drinking it down at an alarming rate, a refill at the ready. Blair’s nails bite into her palm, brimming with discomfort in her own skin, acutely aware that despite their identical upbringings, this was the kind of place, the kind of people, that Serena so easily fit in with. She drifts away from the other girls, making her way into the kitchen to look for _real_ wine and/or _real_ wine glasses — aware, also, that she’s probably going to be disappointed on both fronts. She’s onto opening her third cupboard when she comes across a crystalline bowl, standing out amongst all the earth-toned ceramic, and because Blair is nothing if not nosy, she sticks her hand into it, producing a stuck-together stack of purple post-it notes.

The musk of pot wafts in just as the window across the room opens and shuts, and she turns in time to catch someone crawling back inside from the cold, someone else still standing out there. 

“I was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

The cold wind pricks at her eyes, makes her sniffle almost immediately. He’s wearing a dress shirt instead of his usual uniform, but it’s too dark to tell if it’s been ironed or not.

“I would love to go to one party in this city and not run into someone Serena’s dated.”

Dan smiles, holding his hand out to help her onto the fire escape. His hand is shockingly warm to the touch, the expanse of skin exposed outside his sleeve between his wrist and the tips of his fingers a small space heater. He smells like smoke and lemon dish soap.

“And you?” he says. “With the rate you’re going you’ll have gone out with every asshole in all five boroughs.”

Her brow raises. “Not every.”

“Sorry,” he says, ducking his chin. “That was – I shouldn’t have said that.”

He offers the joint to her, leaning back against the railing, the top buttons of his shirt undone to expose a bit of hair on his chest. It’s most likely the shitty sangria getting to her, but she has the urge to jump him right there.

“I don’t use mind-altering substances.”

His gaze drops down, brows raised with intent.

“Hey,” she says. “My eyes are up here.”

He sticks a finger out, pointing at the cup in her hand. “How many of those have you had?”

“These don’t count,” she says, scrunching her nose at him. “You don’t even have wine glasses.”

He shrugs, placing the joint back between his lips. She plucks it from him without thinking too hard, feeling an awful lot like a teenager with a big, stupid crush, trying to impress him. She presses it between her own lips, spluttering suddenly into a loud, ugly cough. Dan laughs, patting a hand on her back. His other hand comes big over hers, lingering for a beat, then two, before pulling away. He studies the ring of brown lipstick she left before closing his mouth over it slowly.

“I’m done with dates,” she says, draping her arms over the railing and looking out at the lights along the surrounding buildings, twinkling like stars. 

She’s aware of him watching her, but doesn’t meet his gaze. His voice is quiet when he says, “That’s too bad.”

“You know, if you had been on Serena’s list I probably would have liked you.”

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I think if – if we were strangers, and you had taken me on a date I would’ve... I think I would’ve wanted a second.”

“But seeing as I’m your insufferable next door neighbour...”

“I hate you on principle instead, yes.”

Blair shivers, using it as an excuse to shift closer, until there’s no space between them. He blows out another bout of smoke, and she realizes just how much lipstick she must be wearing, as it's transferred from the thin, burning paper onto his mouth. She’s about to reach out and wipe it off, when he licks his lips clean and says, “Could you do me a favour?” 

“Depends.”

“Could you – uh, could you make that little snort noise again? Hearing it once really wasn’t enough –“

She knocks a fist against his chest, which only dislodges her from her already precariously placed balance. His hand comes up again to steady her, sliding down to land on the small of her back.

“Easy there,” he laughs. Her hands find his chest again, fingers splaying out this time, as if to push him. He’s warm and solid under her touch, and she clutches at him a little, like sticking her hands to a fire, trying to capture some of the heat. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

“Knock you down a peg and you’ll be there,” she says. He laughs again, they both do, and the sugared stench on her breath fills the air between them. A gust of wind blows her hair out of place, whipping around wildly and he brings his hand up, smoothing it down over her head, tucking displaced strands behind her ear. His touch lingers there for a moment, and she thinks, _This could work._ He could be warm enough for the both of them. He could make her warm, too. 

Her lips part, and she feels him lean forward more than she sees him, just as the window slides open with a harsh bang, bathing them suddenly in light.

Dan laughs awkwardly, stumbling to push the window back closed, calling out, “Occupied!”

The railing digs into her back where his hand had just been. The warmed glass of the jar in her hand gives away to worn-in fabric, reaching out and drawing Dan in closer. She thinks faintly of the unknowing neighbour a few flights down who’s going to get a sticky hair-full of highly alcoholic fruit punch, but then Dan’s mouth lands on hers, soft and steady, and she doesn’t feel sorry at all. 

Someone bangs what sounds like either a light book or a heavy open palm against the window, and they both ignore it, his hand curled around the back of her neck, hers with a tight fistful of his hair. Maybe she’s okay with him not getting a haircut. 

His mouth travels down her neck, taking the skin over her pulse between his teeth gently. Her breath hitches in her throat, and he lowers to kiss the spot where the air is trapped.

“You sure you don’t want me to take you on a date first?” he mumbles, his hand fitting under her blazer to palm at her hip.

“I told you,” she says. “I’m done with dates.”

She’s forgotten all about the cold, forgotten all about the party moving on without them, until Dan breaks away again to say, “You want me to kick all these people out?”

“That’s okay,” she says. “I don’t live far from here.”

She feels his laugh under her palms, in her cheeks, filling up her chest. 

* * *

She reaches for him when she wakes up, met instead with streaks of sunlight splitting over the empty sheets, a purple post-it stuck to the pillow next to her. 

_Waldorf_

_Are you aware that you have no suitable breakfast foods? Went out to remedy this – also have to wait around for a flower shop to open up._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> been having a rough go of it and wanted to treat us all to something lighthearted and fun and this just... happened! title from lover ofc. as always you can find me on tumblr at mysteriesofloves <3


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